


A Soulmate's Scrawl

by mansikka



Series: A Soulmate's Scrawl [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human Castiel, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:38:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6313882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that when you are ready to meet your soulmate, and your soulmate is ready to meet you, anything written on your skin will automatically appear on theirs, and vice versa. Dean has never believed soulmates are real, or at least, has never thought it would happen to him. But when absent notes begin being etched into his forearm, Dean has to reconsider that it’s possible. Dean’s life is about to change in ways he never dared imagine; what should he write back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Soulmate's Scrawl

**Author's Note:**

> From the Tumblr prompt:  
> Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soul mates skin as well. 
> 
> Imagine having a super artistic soulmate who draws flowers and designs and really beautiful patterns all over their arms and person 2 just sits there and watches the little lines appear on their arms and they can’t stop smiling and it’s their favorite part of the day
> 
> Imagine person 1 being super forgetful so they scribble down all the places their appointments are and person 2 tries to decipher them and figure out where they’re at and they meet and they see their writing on their hand from across the waiting room/ coffee shop/ etc. and they scramble to find a pen and write ‘found you’ on the back of their hand and person 1 sees it and they lock eyes and

_ 2pm: car service _

That's the first message Dean sees scrawled on the inside of his wrist.

It's the oddest feeling: it's like having the lightest of feathers stroked over his skin to the point of making it itch a little. That, or he's developed a slight allergy to his washing detergent overnight.

He's scratching at it absently and unthinkingly for half the morning before he even really looks, and then it's only because his hands are filthy from a morning of high schoolers let loose on paint and easels like they're actual kindergärtners, and it's time for lunch.

He stares down, fingers pressed lightly either side of the scrawled words as soap suds fall and splash messy rivulets against the surface of the sink. He's still staring, several minutes later, when there's a crash through the door behind him and he glances up into the mirror, blinking, to see his head of department heading in and over to a urinal.

“Dean,” he hears mumbled, and it's just enough to break him from his reverie for a moment and to rinse his hands off, and dry his fingers carefully, all while still staring downwards.

“You deaf, boy? I said, you coming to the diner for lunch or what?”

“Sure,” Dean mumbles absently, before hearing a heavy, put-upon sigh.

Bobby Singer shuffles to about a foot in front of him with a look that is all kinds of impatient, and raises an expectant eyebrow. “What's up with you?”

Silently, Dean extends his arm out for Bobby to take a look. Bobby does, peering down intently before looking back up at him; Dean knows there's a spark behind his eyes despite his initial lack of words.

“'bout time,” he mumbles after a moment.

Dean's never really believed that, well,  _ crap _ , about when you're ready, and your soulmate is ready, anything they write on their skin will appear on yours, and vice versa. He'd grown up scoffing at the idea, staring at his dad drawing loop after loving loop all up his forearm, knowing full well his mom was dead and there were no messages ever going to come back.

He's always thought, that if you meet someone and it feels right, it  _ is _ right, and it's as simple as that. Not that he's ever found that happening for himself either.

But now he's seeing it, he's wondering if it was just fear all along that he wasn't ever going to get that lucky and find someone, who was just for him.

“Not exactly profound, is it?” Dean laughs, quiet. Bobby shoots him a smile, and that spark in his eyes lights up a little more.

“Ellen's first message to me was  _ '2 whiskey and sodas, table 9' _ . Took me a while to read it too. Damn woman and her 'artistic writing',” he growls out, but it's laced through with so much affection that Dean can't help but hear.

“ _ 2pm: car service _ though?” Dean says absently, cuffing the back of his head with his hand as he keeps staring down at the message.

“Least they got a car,” Bobby says, and then points out, “That'd be right about an hour from now,” as he glances over at Dean's arm again. “Planning on standing there and waiting for something to come get you, or what? Lunch. Now,” he gruffs out, gripping Dean lightly on the shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,”

***

Dean's friends, extended family like Bobby, and even Sam, have been telling Dean for what feels like forever that when the time is right, it'll happen for him like it's happened for every one of them.

But Dean's watched Sam meet Jess, and Charlie meet Dorothy, and every other person he knows see messages etched out of nowhere and into their skin, and he's always had the lurking suspicion that he doesn't have the right to have that happen to him. Or, like he said, really believed it was a real thing in the first place.

Now that it's happened though, he's feeling a lot more apprehensive than he ever thought was possible.

“So. You gonna write back?” Bobby's asking, mouth round a forkful of fries that he's shovelling in as quickly as he can because he knows Ellen's on her way and will give him hell for 'adding to his cholesterol'.

“And say what? 'hey, allegedly you're my soulmate and you write like you've got a spider on acid dancing in an inkpot and all the way up your arm, wanna make out?'”

“Poetic,” says the southern drawl that announces Benny's arrival. He smirks down at Dean, dishcloth draped over his arm, patting Dean on the shoulder. “'bout time too,” he nods at his arm, and Dean's beginning to think that's going to be every reaction he hears with everyone he meets until he does something about this.

“How about 'hello, I'm Dean, I'm a hot art teacher at your local high school, how 'bout meeting for a coffee?'”

“There's no guarantee they're local,” Dean protests. He's heard stories, not that he's purposely looked out for them, obviously, about soulmates receiving messages from across the seas, and doing the long distance thing before taking the plunge.

Dean doesn't know which he'd prefer.

“But you're not objecting to coffee. Or denying that you're hot,” Benny smirks, spinning away from the table before Dean can complain, or blush.

“Gotta do something, Dean. 's how it works,” Bobby tells him thickly, still with his mouth full.

“Says who?” Dean says, pressing back against the diner seat and staring out the window. “Maybe I don't want this,” he suggests, avoiding Bobby's eyes.

“Right,” but whatever disagreement Bobby has with what Dean's saying is lost as Ellen approaches.

Dean watches them in silence, the way they seem to just... fit. Become... whole, when in close proximity. Dean can't imagine ever feeling like that about anyone, as much as he can admit, at least to himself, that he's lonely sometimes.

***

By the time he gets to Sam's for dinner that evening, he's wondering if his alleged soulmate might have some kind of problem with their memory.

The car service reminder was followed by:

_ laundry _

_ email _

_ dinner _

_ pack bag for Tuesday _

_ Feed the cat _

the last of which is heavily underlined, as well as an entire shopping list, and a

_ Gabriel. Bar. Sigh _

appearing just as he's climbing out of the car.

Gabriel? Dean thinks. Boyfriend? Brother? What's the etiquette for dating when you have a soulmate? Should he feel jealous? Should he feel anything at all?

Sam, and Jess, of course, are delighted. They look back at him dewy-eyed and smiling, and it's just about enough for Dean to want to turn and run. But he doesn't, because he's a good brother, and ultimately, not a coward. He even lets their imagination run wild and come up with a hundred different scenarios. Half of them he's idly already come up with himself, not that he'll tell them that.

“He's obviously a  _ he _ ,” Sam is saying authoritatively as he glances over the marks on Dean's arms again.

“Obviously?” Dean asks, glancing down himself.

“Sure,” Sam nods. “Look at his writing. Gotta be a man,”

Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Don't matter either way.”

“No?” Sam asks, studying him.

“Nope,”

“Huh,”

Dean shoots Sam a look that prevents any further commenting, and they slouch down on the couch for some idle TV and chat for an hour before he heads home.

As he climbs into bed, Dean feels a little bereft when he sees that the words have already started to fade from his skin, and wonders if it's because he hasn't responded, or because whoever's been writing has taken a shower and washed them off.

***

Over the next week, more messages appear, only they really aren't anything more than what seem to be memory prompts. There's an appointment for the dentist, numerous shopping lists, and reminders to do household chores. At the

_ finish work early _

he sees, Dean starts wondering what kind of job this person might be doing, and without thinking, he lifts a pen, pressing it against his skin, as though he is considering asking. He leaves a single thick blue dot, but nothing else as he chickens out.

About an hour later, he looks down in surprise to find a ring's been drawn around the dot.

With shaking fingers, he flicks the nib off of his pen, and draws another ring around that one. Seconds later, a cross is drawn through it, making the mark look a bit like a cross-hair, and making Dean's eyebrows shoot up and his heart thud.

Especially when he looks down at the itching he feels to find the scrawl,

_ tic tac toe? _

appearing there on his arm as well.

Dean feels a burst of laughter bubbling up, and finds himself drawing a smiley face.

_ *** _

Over the course of the week, there are further lists, and Dean finds himself annotating them with 'helpful suggestions'.

_ Salad _ is crossed out and replaced with  _ all the burgers _ .

_ Frozen yoghurt: Meg _ , replaced with  _ Dunkin Donuts  _ and  _ Meg _ heavily crossed out so the name is no longer legible; Dean's not sure why he was so vicious in that particular scribbling, but it had been somehow instinctual.

When he sees

_ buy more tea _

appear during afternoon break one day, instantly he's writing back,

_ tell me you drink coffee?? _

Dean finds himself holding his breath until he feels the familiar scratch, and moments later

…  _ I drink coffee _

appears.

Dean smiles, and sends a reward in the form of another smiley face.

_ *** _

This is every kind of weird imaginable, Dean thinks for the thousandth time, but somehow strangely it's also comforting. Dean's not really initiated any messages of his own, instead just answering whoever's scrawling on his arm. But they become part of his daily routine, and it gets to a point where they're 'messaging' back and forth – albeit just a couple of lines – almost every day.

The first

_ Goodnight _

Dean receives makes him smile, and light up from the inside, then feel like a complete idiot. It doesn't stop him from scrawling back the same.

When Deans wakes to itching, he reaches out to fumble the light on, seeing the words

_ Can't sleep _

appearing on his skin.

He sits up at that, stretches, draws a series of dashes and writes the word

_ letter? _

Seconds later he feels the familiar scratch back, and whilst it's the shortest game of hangman he's ever played, the words on his arm – his,  _ Impala _ , and  _ theirs _ ,  _ soulmate _ , make him smile into the night as he falls back to sleep.

And when

_ 1pm: doctors _

appears on a gloomy Monday morning, Dean feels his chest tighten, and races to grab a pen, mid class, scribbling back

_ are you sick?? _

instantly.

He stares down at his wrist intently, oblivious to the kids in his class and the mess they're making as they take full advantage of his distraction, but nothing appears.

It feels like nothing sits right for the rest of the day.

It's around six in the evening when, in blissful relief, Dean's wrist begins to itch.

_ I'm fine. Altercation with a labrador and leash whilst out running yesterday morning, Banged my wrist up pretty good, wanted to check it out _

Dean lets out a long, slow sigh of relief, and traces his fingers over the longest message he's ever received.

_ I was worried _

Dean scrawls back without pausing, and is rewarded with a smiley face of his own: a blushing one.

Dean debates not washing it off.

***

Dean doesn't think he's very good with words. They always come out choppy, and bitty, and like they're falling all over each other. But what he can do, is draw.

His first real message, then, is a drawing. A single flower with a bee hovering as it collects pollen, drawn in simple lines and minimal shading.

He receives a

_ that's pretty _

for his efforts.

His next picture is of a ripe apple tree, dotted with fallen apples around its base.

_ You're talented... this is beautiful _

comes back.

And then he's rolling back his sleeve to past his elbow, drawing a series of intricate flowers and vines all the way up his forearm and curling round; if he was the kind of person who got tattoos, perhaps he'd get something exactly like that, he thinks to himself as he waits for a response.

…  _ are you telling me that I'm lucky enough to be falling in love with an artist? _

Dean's breath catches at the word  _ love _ , but it isn't because it is a shock to him, or something that he doesn't want. It's because it's what he himself feels already, even if it's something he can't explain.

He pauses only for a second, to compose what he wants to say. Because he really isn't good at the word thing.

_...and what does the person I'm falling in love with do when they're not writing reminder lists all day long? _

Dean receives another blushing smiley face for his trouble, as well as

_ He is a writer _

Dean's face splits into a smile, and his heart pounds a little; of course he is.

***

Another week passes, whilst they get to know each other better. There's halting, hesitant feelings and fears revealed, as well as details like names, favourite colours, and that they do, in fact, both live in the same city.

When Dean's writer tells him his name is  _ Cas _ , short for  _ Castiel _ , Dean spends a couple of days Googling. And his next drawing back, when he's happy with his research, is of an angel with its wings spread wide and proud. He draws it on a Thursday, and waits with his lip in his mouth and an erratic beat in his heart.

_ I'd love to meet you. Can I meet you? _

is the message that appears alongside the angel just a moment after, and Dean's breath catches in his throat.

_ When? Where? _ He writes back immediately, and nods in agreement when he sees the name of a familiar cafe appear directly back.

_ How will I know it's you? _ He asks, both in writing and out loud to himself, biting down hard on his lip again as he waits.

_ I have a feeling we will both know _ , he receives, and Dean breathes out jagged, hoping that he's right.

***

When he dresses for their coffee date, Dean does it with care. He's sure to wear a shirt he can roll easily up past his elbows again, because he has a plan for getting Cas' attention.

He slides down into a chair at an empty table, ordering a coffee and telling himself repeatedly to keep calm. Glancing up cautiously, he sees several other guys there on their own too, and his heart starts up pounding all over again.

Taking a breath, Dean sips at his coffee, uncaps his pen, and begins to draw. It's a flower, just at the base of his thumb, and he glances up quickly, to see if any of the guys are responding.

All three are still looking downwards, and he can't tell if it's at their own skin, or newspapers, tablets or books, so he carries on.

He adds another flower on the other side, joining them together with a tangle of vines before looking up again.

There's a blond guy staring down in what could be the direction of his wrist, and he doesn't look overly happy. Dean swallows awkwardly, telling himself that he knows it can't be him; it doesn't  _ feel _ right.

He can't see much of the expression on the faces of the other guys straightaway, as it means peering around the table next to him. So he takes another sip of his coffee and keeps on drawing.

Dean gets a little carried away with his artwork as he often does, and it's the scraping of a table leg to his side that drags his eyes up and away.

Dean's breath catches, and he has the strangest sensation of wholeness wash over him. Another guy, who had been hidden from him by the neighbouring table, is smiling wide-eyed down at his own arm, holding back his sweater sleeve to take a better look.

He's probably the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen in his life, Dean thinks to himself. Dean knows to expect blue eyes even though he can't see them from where he's currently sat, because when he'd said that was his favourite colour, Cas had drawn him back a simple eye outline and an arrow pointing to the iris saying  _ that's me _ .

But Cas, he must be pretty much perfection, Dean tells himself. His hair is almost the colour of obsidian, although he's pretty sure when he gets up close – and he hopes that's going to be very, very soon – he'll see the darkest of browns, rich, like chocolate.

Dean can see the outline of a trace of muscle where Cas' sweater is pulled back over his shirt sleeve. His smile is warm, and welcoming, and Dean has the idea that he might be the luckiest guy alive.

Without further hesitation, he scribbles a simple  _ found you _ in the middle of his drawing where he'd twined vines together in the shape of a heart.

Cas' smile spreads, and slowly, his head lifts up, his eyes coming to settle firmly on Dean from across the now-empty table between them.

Dean is lost, and found, all in that one moment.

And Cas is rising slowly to his feet, slipping some coins down on to his table next to his drained coffee cup, and walking towards him.

Dean keeps his gaze firmly on his face as he walks, although he's desperate to look him up and down.

Cas slides down fluidly into the seat opposite him, his own eyes showing all the appreciation that Dean himself is feeling.

They beam at each other a little ridiculously for a few moments, oblivious to the waitress offering to refill Dean's coffee, the clatter of cutlery on the table behind them, and the screeching of tyres outside their window.

All Dean and Cas see is each other, and their smiles cannot get much bigger.

Slowly, Dean slides his fingers across the table, up on to Cas' palm, to trail a path and trace across his own artwork that's appeared there on his arm. They both glance down for a moment, then back up again, with a touch of blush to their cheeks.

Cas' smile splits, impossibly wider. And he's clearing his throat, licking his lips, as Dean's heart is pounding out in anticipation.

“Hello, Dean,” he hears, and Dean is home.

  
  



End file.
